All the Colors of Darkness ib-18

by Peter Robinson

  “So you just decided to help Mark in this out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Without any idea of what the repercussions might be?”

  “Obviously not. Like I said, I never intended for anyone to get hurt.”

  “It’s not so obvious to me, Derek,” said Banks. “What did you have against Laurence Silbert that made you pursue him so aggressively? At the very least, you knew what you were doing might cause him great pain. It clearly caused Mark pain.”

  “Well, Laurence deserved it, didn’t he, if he was cheating on Mark?”

  “Were you in love with Mark?”

  “Good God, no! Where on earth did you get that idea? I’m not . . .

  I mean . . . no.”

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  “All right,” said Banks. “Calm down. We have to ask these questions, just for the record.”

  “I was only doing what Mark asked. A favor. As a friend. I didn’t . . .

  I mean, what happened is awful. I would never have . . .”

  “And you’re certain there was nothing else in it for you, that it was nothing to do with the situation at the theater and that you had no other reason to want any harm to come to Laurence Silbert?”

  “No. Why should there be?”

  This was sticky ground. Superintendent Gervaise had insisted that they not refer to Silbert’s occupation, but Banks thought there was no harm in taking a little digression. “When you saw the pictures and heard Tomasina’s report, what did it bring to your mind?” he asked.

  “That Mark was right. Laurence was meeting another man.”

  “But they sat together on a park bench and walked to a house in Saint John’s Wood, where an elderly woman opened the door to them.

  She might not have been visible in the photographs, but she was mentioned in Tomasina Savage’s report. Are you telling me that this looked to you like a man meeting his lover?”

  “I don’t know, do I?” said Wyman. “It wasn’t my business to find out who or what he was, just to report to Mark that he met someone.”

  “Even if it was innocent? In the sense that they weren’t having an affair but meeting for some other reason?”

  “I wasn’t in a position to make those judgments. I just passed the photos on to Mark, told him what the private investigator had seen.

  Besides, why else could they have been meeting? Maybe the bloke was taking him home to meet his mother?”

  “And how did Mark react?”

  “How would you expect?”

  “He tore them up in anger, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. You already know that.”

  “And you just carried on with your evening out together?”

  “No. He took off. I don’t know where he went.”

  “But you went to the National Film Theatre?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the rest was all lies, what you told us before?”

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  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  Wyman looked away. “Most of it, yes.”

  “And did you also know that Silbert was a retired MI6 agent before I told you in the theater bar?” Banks said.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure about that, because you’ve lied to us before?”

  “How would I know that? Besides, what does it matter? You already said he’d retired.”

  “He might have been doing one or two little part-time jobs for his old masters. That would explain the visits to Saint John’s Wood, not an affair.”

  “How could I know?”

  “Surely Laurence would have let Mark know that his trips were work-related, even if he didn’t say what their purpose was. What made Mark think that Silbert was being unfaithful in the first place?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say. Just little things, I suppose.”

  Banks knew he probably shouldn’t be asking his next question, that he was courting the farthest reaches of Superintendent Gervaise’s wrath, but he couldn’t help himself, not now that Wyman had opened the door. “Did Mark give you any reason to believe that Silbert had anything to do with your brother’s death?”

  Wyman’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  “Derek, I know that your brother Rick died on a secret mission in Afghanistan, not in a helicopter accident. I’m just wondering if there was something extra in this for you, an element of revenge, shall we say, payback?”

  “No. No, of course not. That’s ridiculous. I didn’t even know that Laurence had worked for MI6, so how could I connect him with Rick’s death? This is way out of line. I told you, I only did it because Mark asked me to. I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t committed any crime.” He checked his watch. “I think I’d like to go to work now. You did say I could leave whenever I wanted?”

  Banks glanced at Annie again. They both knew that Wyman was right. He’d been responsible for the deaths of two men, but there was nothing they could do about it, nothing they could charge him with.

  Whether he was lying about Hardcastle’s asking him to spy on Silbert, it didn’t really matter. Whether he had been after revenge, either be-A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S

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  cause Silbert had some direct connection with his brother’s death, or because Wyman had something against MI6 in general because of it, it didn’t matter. They might never know, anyway, unless Dirty Dick Burgess came up with some answers. Technically, no crime had been committed. Banks still felt deeply unhappy with the result, but he brought the interview to a close, turned off the recorders and told Wyman he could go to work.

  G L A D TO be away from the station and home for the evening, Banks slipped in the Sarabeth Tucek CD he’d got to like so much over the past few months, poured himself a drink and went out to the conservatory to enjoy the evening light on the slopes of Tetchley Fell. The London bombing still haunted him every time he found himself alone, but it had faded slightly in his mind, become more surreal and remote, and there were moments when he could almost convince himself that it had all happened to someone else a long time ago.

  Even though the case was really over, there were still a few loose ends he wanted to tie up, just for his own peace of mind. He picked up the phone and dialed Edwina Silbert’s number in Longborough. After about six rings she answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Edwina? It’s Alan Banks here.”

  “Ah,” she said, “my dashing young copper.”

  Banks could hear her breathe out smoke. He was glad he couldn’t smell it over the phone. “I don’t know so much about that,” he said.

  “How are you?”

  “Coping. You know they released the body? The funeral’s next week. If you had anything to do with it, thank you.”

  “I can’t claim any credit,” said Banks, “but I’m glad.”

  “Is this a social call?”

  “I wanted to let you know that it’s officially over.”

  “I thought it was officially over last week?”

  “Not for me, it wasn’t.”

  “I see. And?”

  Banks explained about what Derek Wyman had done, and why.

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  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  “That’s absurd,” said Edwina. “Laurence wasn’t being unfaithful.”

  “But Mark thought he was.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t believe it, that’s all.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true.”

  “But Mark knew perfectly well that Laurence was still involved with the service.”

  “He did? I had thought he might, but . . .”

  “Of course he did. He might not have known exactly what he was doing, but he knew the trips to London and Amsterdam were work-related. Why would he ask someone to spy on Laurence?”

  “I don’t know,” said Banks. “He must have become suspicious somehow.”
>
  “Rubbish. I think your Mr. Wyman is lying,” said Edwina. “I think he did it off his own bat, out of pure vindictiveness. He worked on Mark’s insecurity and put his own spin on those photographs.”

  “You could be right,” Banks said, “but unfortunately, it doesn’t matter now. I can’t prove it, and even if I could, he still hasn’t committed any crime.”

  “What a world,” said Edwina, with another sigh of smoke. “Two dear people dead and no crime committed. Was that why you rang?”

  “Partly, yes.”

  “There’s something else?”

  “Yes. Remember when we talked and you first told me that Laurence worked for MI6?”

  “Yes.”

  “It crossed your mind then, didn’t it, that they might have somehow been responsible for his death? Remember, you told me to be careful, too.”

  There was a pause and Banks heard a tinkle of ice. “At first, I suppose, yes,” Edwina said. “When someone with Laurence’s . . . history . . . dies in such a violent way, one necessarily has suspicions.

  They are a devious crowd.”

  “Was that because of Cedric?”

  “What?”

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  “When you spoke about your husband, you told me he had worked for the Secret Intelligence Service during the war, and that he still had connections. He died in a car crash at the height of the Suez crisis, when he was involved in some Middle Eastern oil deal. Didn’t that set off any alarm bells?”

  “I suppose it did,” said Edwina. “Cedric was a good driver, and there was no investigation.”

  “So when Laurence also died under suspicious circumstances, it occurred to you that there might be a connection?”

  “I asked Dicky Hawkins at the time of Cedric’s death. Of course he denied it, but there was something in his manner, body language . . .

  I don’t know.”

  “So you think Cedric might have been killed?”

  “That’s the problem with these people, Mr. Banks,” Edwina said.

  “You just never really know, do you? And now I really must go. I’m tired. Good night.” She hung up.

  When Banks put the phone down he could hear Sarabeth Tucek singing “Stillborn,” one of his favorites. So the Hardcastle-Silbert case, such as it was, was over, even if it had been all Derek Wyman’s malicious doing. They’d let Wyman walk out, a free man. There was nothing they could charge him with, and no matter what Edwina Silbert thought, no way they could refute his story, though Banks did suspect that there was more to it than he had told them, that what they had witnessed in the interview room was more of a performance than a confession, and that Wyman had simply managed to stay one step ahead and come up with a foolproof explanation when he needed one.

  Hardcastle and Silbert were dead, Wyman was responsible for their deaths, whether intentionally or not, and he had walked away.

  Now that he was finished with Wyman, he could devote more thought to his other problem: Sophia. It couldn’t be insurmountable, he believed; there had to be a way of salvaging the relationship, perhaps it was even as simple as just letting a little time pass. Maybe it would also help to convince her that he wasn’t responsible if he let her into one or two more details of the case, including his conversation with Burgess. And a present wouldn’t go amiss, he was certain. Not a CD, but something unique, something that could become a part of her 3 1 0

  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  “collection.” He couldn’t replace what she had lost, of course, but he could offer something new, something that, in time, would grow into its own story, would acquire its own pedigree and tradition. By finding the right object, he could demonstrate that he understood, that he knew how important these things were to her, and that he knew it wasn’t just a materialistic obsession. And he thought that he did understand. It was a plan, at any rate.

  Nearly an hour passed, and Banks had just switched Sarabeth for Cat Power’s The Covers Album, which opened with a slow, acoustic and almost unbearably sad version of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,”

  when his phone rang. He didn’t immediately recognize the voice.

  “Alan?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Victor, Victor Morton. Sophia’s father. How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” said Banks. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me what’s going on, for a start.”

  Banks’s heart lurched into his throat. Christ, had Sophia told her father about the break-in? Was Victor going to blame Banks, too?

  “What do you mean?” he asked, with a dry mouth.

  “I had a very interesting conversation with an old colleague yesterday,” Victor went on. “We met just by chance in the street, if you can believe that, and he suggested we have a drink together.”

  “Who was it?”

  “His name doesn’t matter. It was someone I knew from Bonn, someone I never liked, always suspected of being a bit . . . well, rather like the fellow we were talking about the other day.”

  “Like Silbert? A spy?”

  “Do you have to spell everything out for whoever’s listening?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Banks. “The case is closed. Hardcastle suspected Silbert was having an affair and hired someone to get the evidence. Official version. It was just plain lover’s jealousy, after all, and it went terribly wrong. It’s over.”

  “Well, perhaps someone should tell my colleague that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It started off as a pleasant-enough conversation, old times, retirement, pension plans and the like, then he started to ask about you, A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S

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  what I thought about you as a detective, how I felt about your relationship with my daughter.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t like being grilled, Alan. I told him nothing. Then he moved on, in a roundabout sort of way, started talking about how it is in consulates and embassies all over the world, how you pick up odd bits of information, pieces of the puzzle, things that are usually best forgotten. I simply agreed with him. Then he asked me if I knew anything about a man called Derek Wyman. I said no. Do you know this person?”

  “He was the one,” Banks said. “The one who Hardcastle asked to get the evidence. But it was nothing to do with secrets, at least not the government kind. As I said, it was all to do with jealousy.”

  “Well, he harped on about this Wyman for a while, was I sure I didn’t know him and so on, then he asked after my ‘lovely’ daughter Sophia—he actually mentioned her name—how she was doing. I told him fine as far as I knew and got my things together to leave. I’d had enough by then. Just as I was about to go, he grabbed my sleeve and told me to be careful. That’s all he said. No overt threat. Just ‘Be careful, Victor.’ Now what do you think that was all about?”

  “Melodrama,” said Banks, nonetheless feeling his f lesh crawl as he tried to shrug it off. “They love melodrama almost as much as they love games and codes.”

  “Well, I hope so, Alan. I sincerely hope so. Because if anything happens to my daughter, I’ll—”

  “If anything happens to your daughter, you’ll have to get in line, and I’ll be the first in the queue.”

  “Just as long as we understand one another.”

  “We do,” said Banks. “Good-bye, Victor.”

  Banks sipped some wine and stroked his chin, feeling the two days’

  stubble, thinking over what he’d just heard. Sometime later, Cat Power went into a stark and desolate “Wild Is the Wind” and a cloud cast a dark shadow shaped like a running deer as it drifted slowly over the daleside. Banks reached for the wine bottle.

  * * *

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  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  T H E S H A D O W S were lengthening when Winsome and Doug Wilson, along with the few uniforms they had brought with them as support, approached Hague Ho
use. If the Bull was armed, then he might be dangerous. The officers were carrying a miniature battering ram, affectionately known as a “big red door key,” which they would use to break the door down if they got no answer. More uniforms were stationed at the bottom of the stairwells, where a small crowd had gathered. Andy Pash had reluctantly given an official statement, which gave them sufficient cause to bring the Bull in as a serious suspect in the Donny Moore stabbing. They had also managed to dig up his real name, which was Toros Kemal—hence the Bull, though Winsome doubted that “toros” meant bull in Turkish—and his criminal record, which was lengthy.

  The lifts were out of order, as usual, so they had to climb the stairs on the outside of the building. Luckily, Kemal lived on the second f loor, so they didn’t have too far to climb. One or two lurk-ers in the shadows scarpered pretty quickly when they saw the uniforms.

  Winsome found the green door easily enough. She could hear the sound of a television from inside. Andy Pash had let slip that Kemal was living with a young woman called Ginny Campbell, who was on the council list as the only tenant. She had two young children by another man, so there was a potential hostage situation and they would have to be careful.

  “Step back a bit, ma’am,” said one of the uniformed officers. “We’ll take care of this part.”

  “Be our guest,” said Winsome. She and Doug Wilson stepped back toward the stairwell, about twenty feet away.

  The officer rapped on the door and bellowed, “Toros Kemal. Open up. Police.”

  Nothing happened.

  He knocked again, his colleague beside him with the battering ram at the ready, itching to use it. People were starting to appear in their doorways and at their windows.

  Finally the door opened and a tall man stood framed in the doorway, stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of tracksuit bottoms A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S

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  and trainers. He rubbed his head as if he had just woken up. “Yeah, what is it?”

  “Mr. Kemal,” said the uniformed officer. “We’d like you to accompany us to the station for questioning in the matter of the stabbing of Donny Moore.”

  “Moore. Don’t know him,” said Kemal. “Just let me get my shirt.”